A Pilot in the Fog

The sliding door was wide open and Michael, the Japanese exchange student, sat in the backseat, clutching onto the fur of the great white expanse of dog that was Jenny. I waved at Grandpa as he drove the van past us. He waved back but Michael didn’t, I assumed because Jenny would have leapt out into the road like the buffoon she had been if not restrained.

When I told my mom and grandma this their faces dropped and they asked me to go into the other room. It was only a few years later that he wasn’t able to remember my name. Now, as I watched your elderly hands slowly steer the Oldsmobile up and over the roundabout, I wondered if anyone had spoken worriedly about you behind closed doors yet.